Untamed (32 page)

Kate had called him Patrick, not only once but several times.

It was late. They’d made love for hours. He should be tired, exhausted. He wasn’t.

He couldn’t seem to get his fill of his beautiful wife, and that included looking at her.

Kate lay on her side, her back pressed against his chest. Her eyes were half-closed, her lips sweetly parted. Like as not, he should leave sleeping wives lie, and yet he had to know.

He lifted his head from the pillow. “Happy?”

She hoisted the lid of one eye and mustered a lazy nod. Even with one side of her pretty face turned into the pillow, he could see the half smile broaden. “Hmm, I like it here.”

He tamped down his disappointment over not receiving the hoped-for response. “Scotland can take some getting used to, the winters especially, but it boasts some of the most beautiful scenery on earth. When spring comes, I’ll take you north to the Highland country.”

Her eye, the one he could see, opened the rest of the way. “No, I meant I like it here with you … in your arms.”

“Oh.”

He thought about that a moment, not certain of what he should say in return, if anything. Odd how in business his instincts were fair near impeccable, he always knew what to do, but in his dealings with his wife, he was very much a ship cast adrift from its anchor. Lost, hopelessly lost.

He leaned over and touched her shoulder. In the dying candlelight, her skin looked like alabaster. “Kate?”

No answer.

He levered himself up on his elbow and looked down at her. A soft purring, a ladylike snoring, but snoring all the same, confirmed she was asleep.

He smiled. It was just as well. Declarations of love, or at least the hope of hearing that sentiment returned, would keep for another day. It wouldn’t do to push.

He lay back down and slid an arm about her waist, drawing her close. Her bottom pressed into his middle so that they lay stacked like two contented spoons. Even now that he’d memorized every square inch of her, it amazed him how neatly her slight frame fitted to his big one.

Closing his eyes, it occurred to him that though he’d been with other women, some of whose names he couldn’t recall, none of those encounters could begin to compare to the joy of bedding his beautiful firebrand wife. It wasn’t in his nature to give up easily or at all, but drinking in the sunshine fragrance of her hair, he conceded that taming his wild Kat might well be a lost cause. Against all reason, he’d fallen in love with his headstrong wife—and without altering a single thing about her. Well, mayhap one …

She called me Patrick.

Smiling, Rourke fell asleep.

The week that followed was a honeymoon in truth. Rourke and Kate spent most of it behind the bolted door of their bedchamber. They made love in every way Kate had ever imagined—and a few she’d never even considered. If her husband had any inhibitions at all, she’d yet to discover them. By the week’s end, there was no part of her he hadn’t touched, tasted, or otherwise explored. Every time she thought she’d sampled the entire platter of carnal delights, he found some new way to please her.

Lying abed one morning, Rourke’s head tucked into her shoulder, she traced the outline of the bird tattoo on his bicep. In the light of day, it looked to be a rook. “What does this tattoo signify?”

Her husband turned his mussed head and looked up at her with lazy-lidded eyes. She loved his eyes, but then she’d come to love everything about him—the scars, the big hands that seemed more gentle than coarse, the Scot’s burr. But beyond any physical trait, what she loved most was the brilliant, good-hearted man beneath.

“The crow was Johnnie Black’s. Black’s Boys was the rookery I belonged to.”

“Rookery?”

“A flash house, mind. I snitched purses and stole from street vendors anything I could get my hands on and hide in my pockets. Anything that wasn’t nailed down was fair game in those days, and we had a weekly quota to fill. Any boy who didn’t pull in his share was subject to punishment, to be decided by the group. It was dog-eat-dog, and I did whatever it took to stay fed and alive, but I never murdered anyone nor inflicted hurt for the sport of it. I’m not proud of my past, but I’ll no lie about it, either.”

She pressed a kiss to the crow’s beak because she loved kissing him anywhere and everywhere, but mainly because she wanted to show him it was all right. “How did you escape getting caught?”

“I didn’t. I was brought up three times on charges—vagrancy, thievery, and robbery. Robbery is with a weapon, mind. The last would have meant prison for me. Only the man I’d stolen from spoke on my behalf.”

She’d started down this path because she’d grown to love the sound of his voice with its Scot’s burr and deep timbre, but now she found herself wanting to know the rest of the story. “That sounds noble of him. Surely that can’t be usual? Who was he?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”
Trust me.

She ran a hand through his hair. The auburn locks falling through her fingers weren’t coarse at all, but wondrously soft.

“William Gladstone.”

She angled her face to his, wondering if he might be joking despite his solemn tone. “You robbed the former prime minister!”

“Aye, I stole his money clip, but he was wise to me, and in getting away, I accidentally knocked him out. There was even talk of adding treason to the charges.”

“And still he testified on your behalf.” Kate had always had a fine feeling toward “the People’s William,” as Gladstone was known. From what she’d read of him, he struck her as a principled man, hard but fair. Now she found herself liking him even more.

“More than that, he put up a thousand-pound surety on my behalf and had me sent to Roxbury House instead of jail. It was the first time anyone ever really believed in me. Of course, once there I met Gavin and Harry—Hadrian, I mean—and Daisy.”

“And you’ve stayed friends all these years.”

How ironic that she, born to the upper crust with the proverbial silver spoon in her mouth, would find herself in awe and envy of a quartet of orphaned ragamuffins, but she was. She envied them their wits and their street smarts, but mostly she envied them their genuine, no-holds-barred friendship. Because of the nine years separating them and the maternal role Kate had been called to play, Bea was more of a daughter to her than a sister or confidante. She hadn’t had anything like that in her own life, and dear Lord, how she envied it.

He nodded. “We lost track of Daisy for fifteen years. It wasn’t until we three happened upon her in the Palace music hall that we found her again, but the other three of us were never out of touch for more than a few years.”

Kate traced the curve of a crescent-shaped scar on his brow. “Getting back to mapping the terrain, what about this one?”

“One of the bobbies who collared me was overzealous with his wee club. Gave me several good cracks, did Officer Taggert. My one eye wasna ever quite the same.”

Kate drew back, outraged. “That’s awful. Did you press charges, at least? Was he punished?”

He snorted. “He had the law on his side, and betimes no one fancies a rat.”

Small wonder he must find her quaint, shallow, a snob. “And this one.” She touched a gauge atop his left shoulder, not a whip mark, or at least she didn’t think so. The scar was deep but not terribly long.

His smile flattened. “The buckle of my da’s belt.”

A hard hand had my da.

Kate shivered, her heart aching for the brave, lost little boy he once was. Other than the small scar on her cheek, all her scars were on the inside.

He stroked a hand down her arm from shoulder to elbow. Dear Lord, how she loved the way he touched her, gentle yet firm. “I’m hacked like an old badger, but you, my beauty, are smooth as porcelain, only warm, not cold.”

Not cold at all, but warming by the moment and very much looking forward to making love again. Kate smiled. “You most certainly are not hacked, as you say. You’re quite perfectly beautiful.” She leaned over and pressed a kiss atop the bump on his nose. “And I love your nose. It’s a fine nose, a noble nose. I can’t imagine a more handsome nose on any man. In point, I cannot imagine a more handsome man—period.”

He cupped her face in his palm. “Handsome, am I? I think my bride must have donned an invisible pair of rose-colored glasses, or else she needs glasses.” He grinned.

“No rose-colored glasses are required, sir, nor spectacles of any sort. I but speak the truth as I plainly see it, and you, Mr. Patrick O’Rourke, are a beautiful man. Beautiful
everywhere.”
Feeling positively wicked, she slid a hand beneath the sheet.

He sucked in his breath when she found him and thrust. A small bead of moisture blessed her palm. She smiled, and so did he.

“Tell me, my lady wife, just how many men is it you’ve seen—
naked men,
mind?”

He had her there. Sliding her fingers along the length of him, Kate faltered. “Well, none before you. But I did once see a photograph of Da Vinci’s
David.
Though he’s wearing a fig leaf, I could glimpse sufficient to, um … use my imagination to fill in the rest.” Her husband exceeded her most elaborate fantasies in that department, as well as every other way.

Rourke threw back his head and guffawed.

It was Kate’s turn to blush. It seemed the natural order between them was once more restored, for she felt her face flame. “What? What did I say?”

Rather than answer, he flipped her over on her back and rolled atop her. A hand braced on either side of her pillow, he shook his head. “God, Kate, you do please me. You please me mightily. Not only are you beautiful, clever, and saucy, but as I’ve discovered of late, you’re also ticklish.” He leaned in to tweak her belly.

“Rourke, no! No!”

Giggling, Kate pushed against his chest, futile though that was. Her husband was solid as a stone wall and nearly as implacable. Not that she really wanted to budge him so much as an inch. If the past week’s bliss had taught her anything, it was that she didn’t have to be in complete control every waking moment. She’d taken the week off, leaving the reins of household management in Hattie’s more than capable hands. Amazingly, the earth had managed to continue to rotate and the sun to come up in the morning and set again in the evening, all without her guiding hand.

Perhaps being married wasn’t so very bad after all. It was good to have a helpmate, a partner. Provided that partner was Rourke, she had little to complain of these days. She looked up at his grinning face, the rush of feeling, of love, she felt almost frightening her. It did frighten her. Experience had taught her that loving someone was the surest guarantee that they would be taken from you.

Beyond that, love sucked you in, love drained you dry. Her father, and Beatrice to a lesser degree, left her feeling exhausted and empty, resentful and sometimes even angry. Why was it that their happiness and well-being always took precedence over hers? Why was it she felt as though she was always scraping for crumbs? For the first time it occurred to her that her happiness and well-being might be every whit as important as theirs. Damn it, it was as important as theirs, and so was she.

Was it possible to love someone, to love Rourke, and not lose herself?

Carriage wheels sounded from the pull-up below, cutting off that thought. Their heads turned to the window.

“Were you expecting visitors?” Kate asked.

He eased off her. “Nay, were you?”

“Not I. Scotland in the dead of winter isn’t a terribly appealing prospect to other than native Scots.” Curious, Kate reached for her robe and padded across the carpet to have a look.

Peering through the leaded glass, she saw the cabbie climb from the box and lower the carriage steps. Kate had no difficulty in recognizing the tall, lithe young woman stepping down first. It was her sister. A second woman of similar height but fuller figure climbed out behind her. Kate caught a glimpse of red curls from beneath a garish purple hat.

From the bed, her husband’s sleep-husky voice called out, “Who is it?”

Heart dropping, Kate turned away from the window. She sensed their honeymoon idyll had just come to an end. “My sister is below, and it seems she’s brought a friend.”